


Breath

by dearcecil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:32:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcecil/pseuds/dearcecil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they have sex, Sherlock says John's name over and over and John says Sherlock's name only once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

> [the prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=67808538) was on page 27 of part 21 of the sherlock kink meme.

John sets his hand upon Sherlock’s bare skin, and from that point on, he hears his name on Sherlock’s every other exhalation, during every twist and turn and caress, as constant and as sweet as the squeaking of the mattress. Words spill from Sherlock’s lips like water from a drowned man, and he kisses Sherlock’s chest in the same spot he would press to revive him. The touch is fleeting, but John imagines he can feel the beating of his heart.

Sherlock is beautiful in ways John could only imagine before they met, and he drinks in the sight of him, devours him with a greed that he usually keeps clamped down. Sherlock is soft skin, and sharp angles, and visible ribs, and raised hips, and long limbs. Sherlock is pale as marble, bright against the dark green sheets of John’s bed, patches of pink and red blooming like bruises on his ears, and cheeks, and neck, and shoulders. Sherlock is dark, curled hair, and eyes like ice, and perfect, bow lips, swollen and red from kisses and bites and hushed declarations of “mine.” Sherlock is wandering hands, and fluttering eyelashes, and tongue set desperately against teeth before John’s name escapes again, and again, and again.

John presses into Sherlock, and revels in the heat of him. It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Sherlock can be pallid as death, but hot as fire. That Sherlock can be so eloquent, yet reduced to a gibbering mess beneath John’s hands. That Sherlock can stand so far from the crowd, but still be within arm’s length of John. He is his own man, but he is also John’s man, and John kisses Sherlock again and wishes fleetingly that his mind could shut down as completely as Sherlock’s, that he could be reduced to a name and a sense of desperation and not get trapped in a labyrinth of adoration and bewilderment.

Sherlock scratches his nails down John’s back and squeezes his eyes shut. He looks anguished and ecstatic and outraged all at once, and he utters John’s name like he is God, and John thrusts harder, changes his angle, clutches and rubs and digs his nails into Sherlock’s skin. “John, John, please, John, please,” Sherlock pants desperately. He says “please” as often as he says John’s name, and John wonders whether he even knows what he’s begging for, but it doesn’t matter: Whatever Sherlock asks for, John will give him.

Sherlock’s legs stick to John’s back with sweat, and their skin meets with vulgar slaps, and he keens, he wails, he holds his hand on the back of John’s neck like the weight of the Earth and John fucks him, the only word for it; he fucks Sherlock like he’s the only goddamn thing in the universe, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other in Sherlock’s hair, tugging, tugging, buried in curls and brushing against scalp, and Sherlock—

Sherlock pulls John down to his neck, and John peppers it with kisses, and he turns his head and his lips are against Sherlock’s ear, and—

“Sherlock—”

And Sherlock’s entire body goes tense, and Sherlock’s entire body relaxes, and he’s coming, he’s nearly sobbing, his breath is hitching and he has no idea what to do with himself, clinging to John instead, silently begging John to take care of him.

John moves with the same concentration, the same passion, that he runs after Sherlock with when they’re in danger. That he pours into his voice when they argue, that he pours into his voice when they talk about love. Sherlock twirls his fingers lazily on John’s back, the rhythm of his hands completely incongruous with the rhythm of John’s hips, and he presses a kiss to John’s left shoulder and he comes with a silent cry and—

He falls on top of Sherlock for a moment, dead weight, struggling to catch his breath, and all the words that were stuck in his head suddenly come flying up his throat, and he gulps down “you’re beautiful” and “you’re perfect” and “you’re everything.” Sherlock watches him, still tracing invisible patterns on John’s skin, and the haze is leaving his vision, and his lips turn up as he regains proper control of his voice. “John,” he says, despite the grip he has now. His voice is quiet. Almost reverent.

“Sherlock,” John replies, hearing the same tone in his voice. He picks himself up off the man, leans over to grab some tissues, cleans Sherlock with tender slowness as Sherlock licks his lips and watches. John tosses the tissues into the wastebasket, flops down beside Sherlock, lays an arm across his chest. Sherlock wraps himself around John, and tucks his chin over John’s head.

The sweat dries from their skin, and their grips loosen with their exhaustion, and Sherlock exhales slowly. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, and John doesn’t have to return the sentiment, because he was saying it after every kiss, gasping it out, as lost and as unable to control himself as Sherlock.

John grabs Sherlock’s hand and says it back anyway, and the hundredth time in a night, the thousandth time in a week, still feels like the first.


End file.
